


Be careful, Mr. Campbell

by orphan_account



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 01:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17878889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "But this face brought upon him a profound illness, and a profound sadness, so unlike the stoic persona of the scientist. This was the face of Basil Hallward....Basil Hallward had been murdered in Dorian Gray's attic, and now here, before his eyes, the artist layed dead, waiting to be disposed of by his hands."Or, the backstory of Alan Campbell and Basil Hallward, as it came to me late one night.





	Be careful, Mr. Campbell

Alan Campbell nearly went faint upon laying eyes on the corpse's face. With his interests in anatomy and chemistry, he had seen a number of corpses in his lifetime, each a faceless, grotesque specimen of study that would yield a few insights into the human body, which would then be jotted down and published later, after which he would forget everything of the individual. What hair he had, if he was particularly lanky, all of that discarded like the memory of what one had for lunch last Tuesday. But this face brought upon him a profound illness, and a profound sadness, so unlike the stoic persona of the scientist. This was the face of Basil Hallward. He cared not for insights due to the circumstances. He cared not for the circumstances due to the man. A man had not been murdered in Dorian Gray's attic any longer. Basil Hallward had been murdered in Dorian Gray's attic, and now here, before his eyes, the artist layed dead, waiting to be disposed of by his hands.

Only when he went to put his gloves on did Alan notice his hands were trembling. He reached one out to hold the corpse's hand, stiff and cold, fingers slightly crooked, but still the hand of Basil Hallward. It would have been enough to break him into tears if it weren’t for the utter white terror and shock of the circumstances.

The past came back to him now. Again he stood at Dorian Gray’s door, about five years prior, hand about to reach for the knocker when he heard footsteps approaching and then slowing behind him. He turned to face the man, who eyed him with hesitant question.

“Are you also here to see Dorian Gray?” The man asked. Alan set the knocker back in place. 

“Indeed. I’m Alan Campbell.”

“Basil Hallward. I can’t say Dorian has ever mentioned a word of you to me.”

“Nor of you to me. He never said a word of another person when he asked me to come by today, I’m afraid.” 

“I wasn’t expected,” “I suppose it was quite rude of me to come by uninvited anyway.” There was a profound sadness in his face. He turned to walk away with his head turned away, but halted when spoken to.

“You and Dorian must have been quite close, for you to come by uninvited.”

“We were. I suppose we still are, though I haven’t spoken with him in quite some time. That’s why I’ve come - I was growing worried.”

“Worried?”

“Yes. Dorian needs to be worried over. He simply isn’t the same man I knew when I met him. Tell me - and forgive my intrusion - but do you consider yourself to be a good man?”

The question struck a peculiar note, but staring into the wide, frantic eyes of the artist, Alan felt compelled to answer, “I certainly don’t believe I’m a bad man.”

Basil sighed. He held his eyes shut a moment, a smile gracing his face briefly before it fell. “Good. He needs a good influence. But be careful, Mr. Campbell. Don’t allow yourself to be hurt.”

Be careful, Mr. Campbell

In the present, Alan released the dead man’s hand and brought himself to stand. He breathed through the lump in his throat, supporting himself on the desk where the body sat, now supported by the back of the chair rather than hunched over where he had found it. Strange, how a man becomes an “it” when he is dead. Then he is no man, only a body, a body without life or soul. A body that once possessed a soul so broken.

It hadn’t donned on him then, but upon reflection at the sight before him it all fell into place and awakened a rage he had not known he could feel. Dorian had broken the man. He had taken this mild soul and shattered it to pieces before letting it drain through the neck. How absolutely horrid. And here they stood, the corpse and the gravedigger, while the murderer lounged upon a luxury imported sofa downstairs, holding between his fingers a letter of dangerous, dangerous truths.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hallward, but I’m afraid neither of us were careful enough.”


End file.
